


The Darker It Gets, The More I Do

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 10, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Caring Sam Winchester, Demon Cure, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, can u blame him, dean hunting sam down with a hammer fucked him up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 04:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15135542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: Dean’s reacquaintance with humanity is longer and more painful. Sam plays the role of a reluctant caretaker.





	The Darker It Gets, The More I Do

**Author's Note:**

> written for the demonophobia bingo square  
> title from '100 Years' by Florence + The Machine  
> follow me on tumblr @sahwen!

It was several days of tiptoeing around the bunker, heart pounding at the sound of creaks in the floorboards, keeping Ruby’s knife at his side at all times. Several days of holding his breath and salting his bedroom doorway.

“Skittish, much?” Dean griped when Sam startled at his presence, nearly spilling his coffee across the kitchen table. “Fucking annoying.”

“You came at me with a hammer,” Sam said. He clutched the hilt of the knife in his belt. “You wanted to paint the walls with my brain matter.”

“Betcha it would’ve looked  _amazing_.” Dean leaned against the kitchen island, glass of whiskey in hand. His lips were parted, the tip of his tongue tracing along the edges of his teeth. “But I can’t hurt you, no matter how much I might want to. We both know that now, don’t we?”

That had been a recent discovery. Sam had always had… a certain way with demons. Some even came to him, requesting he take the throne when Crowley’s regime went sideways. But this had been new; Sam had begged for Dean to stop, tears in his eyes, and Dean had let the hammer fall to the ground as if caught in a trance. His lip had curled, the words  _boy king_  snaking out of his mouth.

Dean was still a demon-- just weakened, like Crowley had been when he was gorging himself on human blood. But as he became more human, the warding became less effective, and Sam had no choice but to let Dean walk the halls freely. Even with his safety essentially guaranteed, Sam wasn’t happy about the arrangement.

“Don’t like me hanging around, huh?” Dean guessed. He sidled up behind Sam, his fingers grazing Sam’s shoulders. If he was trying to get a rise out of Sam, trying to elicit some snap of emotion, well, he was doing a great job. Sam’s blood pressure was through the roof. “That’s too bad. I like spending time with you, Sammy.”

“Shut up.”

“I really wish we could finish what we started,” Dean said, his tone dripping with mocking wistfulness and his hand resting on the nape of Sam’s neck. Dean used to do that as a means of comfort, of stability. This time it was a twisted display of dominance. “It was fun, hunting you down like that.”

Sam wanted to throw up. He settled for not saying anything. It would only take a simple stop to keep Dean from hurting him, but the fact he would have to tell him stop at all-- the fact Dean was filled with so much malice that Sam’s status as the rightful heir to Hell’s throne was the only thing protecting him-- was unsettling, to say the least.

“What do you say, Sam?” Dean purred. “Lower your shields, take off the damn demon condom. Be the Wendy to my Jack.”

“When you’re cured,” Sam said, no tremor in his voice to betray his fear, “you’re gonna drown in your own guilt.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t come at me with that bullshit.”

“You are.” Sam rose from his seat, shrugging out of Dean’s grip. He was tired of entertaining this, tired of letting Dean taunt and threaten him. “I  _know_ you. What you’ve done, and what you tried to do-- it’s gonna destroy you when you come out of this. So for your own sake, I’d suggest you let me be.”

Sam stormed out of the kitchen and Dean didn’t follow.

-

The next morning, Sam found Dean in the shower room, huddled on the floor under the spray.

“Um.” Sam cleared his throat. He was extremely aware of the fact that he was in nothing but a towel, and Dean was naked.

“I can’t stop sweating, okay?” Dean snapped. Water drops had collected on his lashes, darkening them. “And I’m fucking freezing.”

“It’s the cure. It’s working.” Sam reached out to help Dean to his feet. “C’mon, let’s get you up.”

Dean swatted Sam off and struggled to his feet on his own. He was shivering despite the heat from the water, and his face was bloodless. He swayed a little and leaned heavily against the tile wall.

“Dean…” He should leave Dean to his own devices, let him suffer on his own. “Just-- let me help.”

Dean glared at him, eyes flickering black for a moment as if trying to flex his power, just to remind Sam of their situation, before reverting to their normal springtime green.

“Fine,  _your majesty_.”

Dean grabbed his robe off the hook and pulled it on, stalking off to his bedroom and leaving Sam alone. Sam took a deep breath of steam, searching for some kind of solace in the humid air. His hands shook as badly as Dean had been, and he left for his room to get dressed. He could shower later. He didn’t feel like taking that risk right now.

-

It was weird being in Dean’s room with a Dean that wasn’t really Dean. All the pieces were there, but they didn’t fit quite right. Dean stuck out like a sore thumb in his own home.

He hadn’t changed from his robe yet when Sam knocked tentatively on the door and let himself in.

“Hey,” Sam said. Nothing was going to kill the tension, so he figured it would be best to lean into it.

Dean glanced at him and then turned away, shaking his head and staying silent. Anger contorted his mouth into a scowl. Sam wondered if this was how he was going to die-- if Dean would fight through Sam’s power, ignore the fact that humanity was a runaway train at this point, and kill him anyways. Dean, demon or not, was not known for thinking things through.

Dean’s hair was still wet, dripping onto the collar of the robe. He’d grown it out slightly, the typical military crew-cut becoming more civilian. It stuck in strands to his forehead.

“Dry off,” Sam said, and tossed him the towel that hung on the inside of the door. Dean caught the towel and brought it up to his head, but then his arms dropped into his lap.

“Hurts,” Dean muttered.

“Huh?”

“I can’t fucking do it.” Dean wouldn’t look at him. “My limbs feel like overcooked spaghetti.”

Sam wasn’t scared of Dean. He had to convince himself of that because if he didn’t believe it, if he let himself sink into the fear that was so  _so_ tempting, he would never resurface. He approached Dean, not like he was a feral animal, but like he was his brother, and sat next to him on the bed.

That memory foam mattress that Dean had picked out last year-- that felt like lifetimes ago. Sam wondered if little joys like that registered in Dean now, with the way he was. Maybe Dean didn’t care about memory foam mattresses, or dark French roasts in the morning paired with the smell of bacon frying on the stove, or Patrick Swayze movies, or the specific shade of blue of their best friend’s eyes. Dean certainly didn’t care about brotherhood. Love, family, whatever this was. That pierced Sam deeper than fear; it broke his fucking heart. 

Sam took all that shit and buried it deep, then draped the towel over Dean’s head and gently dried his hair for him.

“This is your fault,” Dean told him.

“I know,” Sam said. He’d heard it before.

-

Dean’s fever spiked during the night.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Dean curled around the pillow, clenching the gentle fabric in his fists, riding out the pain. There wasn’t a dry spot on him; he was sweating bullets.

“You’re okay,” Sam said, but for all he knew he could be lying. He had to face facts; he had no idea how this was going to turn out.

Dean rolled onto his back and chucked the pillow at Sam. Sam didn’t complain. It was better than a hammer.

“Fuck you!” Dean shouted-- as much as he could shout. His voice was hoarse, strained with pain. “You did this!”

Dean was weak, Sam reminded himself. Dean couldn’t hurt him even if he wanted to, which he definitely did.

Sam hated demons, hated their giddy violence and their theft of human bodies. He hated how connected he was to them. That darkness he had, reflected at him in their black eyes. The rage he used to hold that had been tamped out after centuries in the Cage. Sometimes he missed it, the way he’d been before. When he didn’t know so much.

But Sam didn’t hate Dean. He could never hate Dean, not even when Dean had made their home into his own personal hunting ground. It was hard to reconcile that with everything else.

Dean was on top of the blankets, his limbs splayed out, eyes following the spin of the ceiling fan. His body glistened with sweat, and his simple outfit of boxers and a white undershirt clung to him.

“You with me?” Sam asked.

Dean didn’t respond.

“Dean.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean breathed, not bothering to turn his head.

This had to be hellish, if his own demon blood detoxes were anything to go by. Falling from grace was easy; the climb back up was steep and agonizing. All Sam could do for Dean, really, was give him a shoulder to lean on if he wanted it. But Dean still had to move his own feet.

“You’ll feel better soon,” Sam said.

“Bullshit.” Dean raised his arm, revealing the Mark of Cain branded just below his elbow, then let it drop onto the bed. “Seems to me like it’s out of the fire and into the frying pan.”

“I’m trying to focus on one thing at a time.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Dean said. “When I’m like this. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Of course it doesn't. You’re giving into it, you’re feeding it.” Sam paused. “Sometimes pain means you’re doing something right-- something important.”

“So that’s it, huh?” Dean pushed himself up on his elbows and finally looked at him. “You’re gonna keep deluding yourself into believing this is worth it? Gonna risk me dying on the chance that you’ll get your brother back?”

Sam exhaled sharply. Dean had some fucking nerve.

“You know how many times I could’ve asked you that same question?” He said. “You want me to count?”

In one fluid motion, Dean rolled off the bed and drove Sam up against the wall.

“Fuck you,” Dean spat. “I never wanted my humanity. I told you right from the start to cram it up your ass.”

“Oh, I’m  _sorry_ ,” Sam replied, shoving Dean off of him hard enough to make Dean stumble. “Were you not there when I said I didn’t want my soul? When you tied me down and had Death shove my soul into me anyway?”

Dean threw a punch, but his reflexes were slow, and Sam was able to catch his fist.

“You don’t wanna do that,” Sam said as a warning.

“You and your fucking  _title_ keeping you safe,” Dean growled. “All to force me into something I don’t want. You’re full of shit.”

“You think  _I’m_ full of shit?” Sam backed Dean up, forcing him to keep a distance. “What about  _you?_  What about you locking me away to puke and convulse my way through demon blood withdrawal? What about my soul and the wall in my head? What about Gadreel?”

Dean scoffed, which filled Sam with so much rage that he took Dean by the collar and slammed him into the opposite wall.

“You’re my brother, and I’d die for you.” Sam put one hand to the base of Dean’s neck, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse under Dean’s skin. “But you’re right. I am the rightful king. And I could just as easily kick your ass.”    

“Then come on,” Dean said, and defiantly stuck his chin out to expose his throat for good measure. “Kick my ass, Sammy. Go ahead and get a few good punches in, even the score. Bruise me like a goddamn peach.”

Sam wanted nothing more, but his grip on Dean slackened. Everything in him screamed to fight, to let his anger come pouring out, but he put a cork in it. He’d gotten better and better at that over the years.

“No,” Sam said, taking a deep breath.

“No?” Dean repeated. “What, you’re pussying out all of a sudden? Typical.”

Sam saw the way his knees buckled, his clammy skin, his ashen complexion. Dean didn’t need bruises and a bloody nose added onto all that. Dean’s suffering resonated in him, had him awash with sympathy.

“I’m doing what you couldn’t do for me,” Sam said.

Dean raised an eyebrow, skeptical, as Sam guided him to his bed. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

He stood between Dean’s legs and took Dean’s face in his hands, the feverish sweat sticking to his palms. Dean was vulnerable, weak. He needed kindness, now more than ever.

“Showing mercy,” Sam said, and pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead.

Dean blinked up at him, clarity passing through his eyes for a few fleeting moments.

“Please,” Sam murmured. “Come back to me.”

“I told you to let me go, Sammy.” Dean held onto Sam’s wrists. That  _Sammy_ was different than it had been before; it wasn’t mocking or bloodthirsty. It wasn’t Dean, not yet, but it was closer. “I warned you, you gotta let me go.”

Sam shook his head. “Not an option.”

“Why not?” Dean demanded, anger flaring up again despite his total exhaustion.

“If you were really you, you wouldn’t have to ask.” Sam stepped back. “You should get some rest, give us time to cool off. I’ll go.”

Dean caught Sam by the arm and drew him in again, fingertips slipping from the crook of Sam’s elbow to his palm.

“What if you came to  _me?_  Hopped the fence and spent some time on your throne.” Dean’s grip on Sam was tight, white-knuckled. “I’d be loyal.”

“I spent a long time fighting that part of myself, Dean,” Sam said, yanking his hand out of Dean’s clutches. “I did all I could not to give in. And I know you don’t care right now, but you-- the real you-- would never forgive me if I did.”

-

Sam managed to have Dean lie down and drift into a restless sleep. He stayed by Dean’s side, the desk chair pulled up next to the bed, ready to put another blanket on him when he started to shiver or take them away when he began to sweat.

The steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest was almost enough to create a sense of normalcy. When he slept, Dean just looked sick. It was harder for Sam to pretend things were fine when Dean was awake.

Dean was sick, Sam supposed. They had to flush out the bad in him, same as any illness. Except Dean  _wanted_ to get better when he had a cold, or the flu, or a bad hangover.

_Personally, I like the disease._

There was so much of his younger self reflected in Dean, so much Sam had struggled to push down and ignore. He hadn’t only gone down that road for revenge, or because the ends justified the means; the power that came with demon blood, with anything dark, was addictive.

Watching Dean succumb to the thing Sam had fought his whole life denying was disturbing. Dean was supposed to be the righteous one. How the mighty fall.

Dean stirred, snapping Sam out of his thoughts.

“... Sammy?” It came out muffled, Dean’s head buried under the blankets with only a tuft of hair peeking out.

“I’m here.” Sam turned on the bedside lamp. “You okay?”  

Dean pulled the blankets down to expose his eyes, squinting at the brightness. “‘M I okay…?” He echoed.

Sam took the flask of holy water from his pocket and threw a few drops over Dean’s face. No sizzle, no steam, no look of pain.

“You’re okay,” Sam told him, sinking into the chair as relief rushed in. “You’re okay.”

Dean wiped the water from his face. “Sam, I…” He clenched his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it now, alright?” Sam stroked his hair as Dean buried his face in his pillow. His shoulders trembled and Sam ran his hand over them, trying his best to soothe him. “You’re back, that’s-- that’s all that I care about.”

Dean drew a shuddering breath and held it, his whole body tensing up

“It’s okay to cry, Dean,” Sam said as gently as he could, and with that, Dean went lax.

“‘M sorry,” Dean sobbed into the cotton sheets, curling in on himself, distraught to the point that it made Sam want to cry, too. “‘M sorry, Sammy, I’m sorry--”

“Shh, shh. Look at me, hey.” Sam sat on the edge of the bed and rolled Dean over to expose his face.

Dean wasn’t a cryer. Everyone and their mother knew that. Even when he did cry, it was minimal. This, and the intensity of it-- it was was hard to watch, hard to process. Sam had fallen into the position of caretaker only a few times in their lives, and it had never stopped being jarring to see Dean so wrecked. And nothing before came close to this. Dean looked absolutely shattered.

“It’s over.” Sam wiped the tears from Dean’s face with the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s all done, you’re okay. We’re both okay.”

Dean sat up, still shaking, and finally met Sam’s gaze. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. He leaned forward, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam took him in his arms.

“I know what I did,” Dean said, breath hot against Sam’s neck. He continued to weep, creating a wet spot on Sam’s shirt. “You can’t tell me you’re okay, not after...”

“I’m okay,” Sam promised. He held Dean tighter and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of his older brother.

Images flickered on the backs of his eyelids; Dean stalking through the halls and calling his name; the metallic gleam of the blunt end of a hammer, heavy in Dean’s fist; Dean’s eyes going black, his mouth splitting into a cruel smile.

“We’re both okay,” Sam repeated, hoping Dean didn’t notice the waver in his voice.


End file.
